Not Quite The Sexy Librarian

...that I'd hoped to be, but shit happens. Most of that shit is summed up pretty easily:

The GRE's were a bitch

There's not a library anywhere that's seriously hiring and paying anyone at all

I never did master knotting my hair with a pencil

Until reading an article on the relevancy of books in 2013, I didn't even consider why I had wanted to go into library science. I don't just love reading books. I enjoy browsing stacks of books, holding a book in my hand, flipping the pages, falling in love, and then sharing this magic with someone else. So, when this article suggested several ways to keep books alive in an increasingly digital age, I couldn't help but take the author's advice to heart. If we want to keep books alive than we have to read them and promote them. 

For my first book of 2013 we have:

Another Man's Moccasins, Craig Johnson

This is the fourth Walt Longmire book that I've read. It's not the best series, but it's entertaining and different from what I'm used to. The sheriff, Longmire, is your typical modern cowboy: a bit of a luddite who loves his daughter, his job, and his hat. His best friend, Henry Standing Bear, is an Indian (word choice intended) who lives on the local reservation and helps Longmire solve the local murder mysteries when he's not too busy running his bar. In this book, the reader flip-flops between today and the late 60's as a current murder in Wyoming coincides with a part of Longmire's past that he wrongly assumed was left behind in Vietnam. 

What the hell is the 'spiritual but not religious' anyway?

You would think that growing up with a Jewish education and then continuing on to earn a degree in religious studies would make me pretty certain about my religious beliefs. OR, that my adherence to certain Jewish traditions and my potential to turn into Grace Adler was my public affirmation of my sheer Jewishness- hey, I'm not a Dr. or a lawyer, but I am in jewelry sales. The thing is, I don't even have much of an idea what I believe or which corner of this very religiously divided world I fit into.

Growing up, it was an expectation that we all (my three siblings and I) attend religious school which concluded with a party of epic proportions. That's how we rolled, right? Bars supported on ice sculptures, filet mignon, wildly trashy dancers, and an event that I hardly remember ten years later at the ripe old age of twenty-three. In my desperate attempts at calling off the whole bat mitzvah, I'm pretty certain I declared myself an atheist as soon as I knew what the word meant. It's not that I was using the word to get myself out of a situation which I deemed mortifying, but because I truly couldn't understand why I had to go through with something that I dreaded for reasons that meant nothing to me. Alas, I had the bat mitzvah and vowed to never see the inside of a synagogue again with the exception of future family bar/bat mitzvahs. 

It's amazing to me that we are all way past the Jewish rite of passage, but we have never once discussed God. Aside from my 'atheist' outburst at eleven, I'm not sure we have ever sat down as a family, or even mentioned in passing, what we believe in. I suspect my parents believe in a God of some sort, although they don't even visit shul on the two holiest days of the year. My siblings? I'd bet that my sister believes strongly in the power of vodka, my one brother in a future where the Messiah is a robot, and the other brother is too busy with girls and sports to even consider much else. Then, there's me- I'm still an atheist but no longer asking the obnoxious question of how the dinosaurs fit into God's seven day creation.

The goal going forward is to take my own past of a basic childhood religious education, my secular college-level degree, and the resources around me to try and make some sense of this craziness. Is it necessary to believe in God to be religious? What the hell is this uproar about the 'spiritual but not religious' and what does that popular phrase even mean? Most of all, if I don't believe in an omniscient God, then what exactly do I believe in? 

A Year Of Mourning

I woke up last year, much like I woke up today; reaching for my alarm at 7a.m., remembering that it was my fiance's birthday. I was a bit frazzled as I rushed to shower, get ready, and prep what little I could for dinner that night. Luis is one of two people whose birthdays I always work to make extra special and memorable. In my haste, I never had even the slightest notion that I would spend the next year caught off guard each time I was faced with the sickening feeling of my stomach that often comes with a huge drop on a roller coaster. Later that night, gifts were handed out, dinner was served and now it was time to blow out the candles signifying each of the twenty-four years since he had been born. But, there is always that sick, dark, ironic twist- isn't there? Only twenty minutes away, the young woman whom I had asked to stand up at my upcoming wedding as my maid-of-honour was counting down her last minutes. I will never know what she was thinking as she prepared to take her own life, in a way that I can only imagine must have been absolutely terrifying.

To this day, I still listen to the voicemail from another person who is also long gone, calling to tell me that I had better rush to the hospital because the odds were not good. I'll tell you, those crushing moments you see on TV where the person falls to the floor in a moment of shock after losing a loved one are absolutely real. The emergency room floor, right in front of the security desk, with a dozen ailing patients is never ideal. With some assistance, I did eventually find myself somewhat upright, walking ahead of my fiance who was parking the car, unaware of the tragic blow we had all been dealt.

I have spent 366 days replaying in my head every moment of those two hours at the hospital. It's a lie when they tell you that death looks like sleep, because it doesn't. It looks like absolute torture, if you ask me. This was not the girl I had considered more than a best friend and more like a sister. Her hair was too thin, her polish too chipped, and the bruises were never there before. It's strange how it was so painfully obvious it was her, but at the same time it didn't look like her at all.

Lauren was the stronger of the two in our relationship. Stronger in that she was the one who ran for me in the second grade when a mean girl challenged me to a race. Stronger in the way she didn't cry when we tripped over a skateboard and she broke her leg in several places (which required surgery and a cast up to her hip!). Stronger because she was the one to comfort me through all my fits and tantrums growing up over fights with my parents and trouble in school. She was a stronger writer and reader as well. At first I was jealous of how incredibly bright she was, but then that jealousy became inspiration as it challenged me work harder. I spent my life looking at this girl through rose colored glasses that it was a shock to me a few years ago when she called me up, completely distraught.

As an adult she could no longer solve problems with a race on the playground or a well written essay. These were problems and dilemmas that she intended to keep secret for better or for worse. I would love to think that if she could have been picked up and dropped down in an entirely new life that she would have been okay, but the damage was done and it ran deep. She did still have goals and dreams, but they were for a future far off that she did not know how to create. She was caught up in the madness that eventually took over her, as well.

In the past year I have broken down in bridal dressing rooms, in the car, at home, in front of people, and in private. I have yet to learn how to manage the hurt I feel when I think of her and how empty life is in her absence. I have come to one solid conclusion, though. We should not start by working to prevent others from taking their own lives; instead, we should work to make life worth living.